Heat Trap

by JL Merrow

  “I wouldn’t have got you involved, but Marianne panicked. Wanted him out of there. My fault, though. I told her about you finding bodies before, and it must have put the idea in her head.”

  I stared. “You knew he was down there?” I hissed, darting a look around to make sure no one was in earshot.

  “Course I bloody knew,” Harry said, her voice equally low. “You think I don’t know what’s in my own cellars?”

  “So why didn’t you call the police as soon as you found him? Or Phil, at least?” It wasn’t like I’d gone around advertising that me and him weren’t on the best of terms at the mo, so it couldn’t have been a display of solidarity or anything.

  Bugger. Since I’d spoken to Mum, the word solidarity just made me think of Mike Novak. Right now, I didn’t need the distraction.

  “Wanted to talk to a couple of people first. Look at my options. And no offence, but your Phil would’ve gone straight to the police. Once a copper, always a copper.”

  I glanced over at Phil, who was laughing at something Gary or Darren had said and looking more relaxed than I’d seen him for weeks. “He’s got a lot of ex-colleagues who’d beg to differ with you on that one. These people of yours… Had a bit of practice dealing with inconvenient dead bodies, have they?”

  “Met all sorts when I was boxing,” Harry said, which, if it was an answer, wasn’t a reassuring one.

  “Surprised you didn’t call them in to deal with him in the first place, then.”

  “If I’d been after that kind of solution, I wouldn’t have called in your Phil, would I?”

  I couldn’t help smiling at the thought. Yeah, he was my Phil all right. Then I gave her a hard look. “So it definitely wasn’t you who threw that cricket ball at my head?”

  “Swear to God. No, my money’d be on Carey for that one. Malicious little shit.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Him or Kev, anyway. Though Dave tells me Kev’s denying it. Not that that means anything, but seeing as how they’re doing him for murder and arson already, one little count of assault wouldn’t up the sentence much.”

  To be honest, I’d have been happier if it’d been Kev. I was still having trouble reconciling the way Carey had been last time I’d seen him with him having at that point already put me in the hospital.

  I hesitated, not sure if I should tell her the next bit, but sod it, she was a mate, and she’d just told me something pretty bloody incriminating herself. “Look, keep this to yourself, yeah, but Dave told me Kev’s admitted killing Carey. Though he says he never meant to, obviously. Just lost his rag and hit him.” Course, once he had a dead body on his hands, he wasn’t above trying to use it to his advantage. “And he’s confessed to stashing the body in your cellar—he was hoping even if the frame-up didn’t work, the pub’d be closed down.” I hesitated, then thought in for a penny and all that. “Oh, and he said a few uncomplimentary things about your door locks.”

  It’d turned out Kev was actually fairly knowledgeable about house-breaking. His late mum must have been so proud. He’d even managed to find the override key and disable Harry’s smoke alarms before he’d started, the bastard. Evading police pursuit, though, had turned out to be another matter. It hadn’t taken long for them to track him down at a mate’s house in Somerset and haul him back here for questioning.

  I was still waiting to get my phone back, mind.

  Harry snorted. “Not going to be a worry for a while, now, is it?” She took a long swallow from her Fanny Ebbs and put the bottle back down on the bar with an ahh of satisfaction. “I’ll be able to get some new ones on the insurance.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s an ill wind.” I was glad she was being philosophical about it. “Listen, are you all right in the mean time? Got a place to stay?”

  “Cheers, Tom, but I’m fine. You enjoy the party.”

  I picked up the drinks and headed back to the happy couple.

  “Somebody was a long time,” Gary said reprovingly. “That’s you off the New Year’s Honours List.”

  I handed him his martini with as much of a bow and flourish as I could manage without spilling it or my beer. “Yeah, well, I got talking, didn’t I? Don’t suppose you know where Harry’s staying, while the Dyke’s out of bounds?”

  “Well, far be it from me to spread salacious gossip—”

  Darren choked overdramatically on his pint. Gary mock-glared at him and continued, “But the word amongst the bell-ringing fraternity is that she is currently residing at the vicarage.”

  “Yeah? What’s she doing there?” I perched on the arm of his throne so I could hear him better over the hubbub.

  Darren gave me a pitying look. “You mean who’s she doing? And there’s only one other person what lives there. And who Harry’s been seeing on the sly, sneaking her in and out the pub at all hours. Told you before, them church types, they’re all at it.”

  I goggled at him. “You mean… Harry and the Rev? Seriously? I mean, Christ, what the bloody hell have they got in common?”

  Gary tittered. “Apart from the obvious, you mean?”

  Phil huffed a laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe Harry’s got deep religious beliefs she never talks about. Or maybe Lillian’s a boxing fan. Maybe they just get on well, you ever thought of that?”

  “Yeah, but… Is it even allowed? I mean, I know vicars are allowed to be gay these days, but are they allowed to have, you know, relationships?” I shied away from saying “have sex”. Some pictures I did not want in my head, and the mental image of Harry en flagrante was definitely among them.

  Phil shrugged. “Current line is, it’s fine as long as they’re celibate. Some of ’em are even married, civil partnered, whatever.”

  “Seems a bit hard. Pun not intended.” I tried to imagine living with Phil and not, well, shagging him. I’d have permanent wrinkles from all the cold showers I’d have to take. Then I frowned. “When you say celibate, what does that mean, exactly?”

  I got patronizing looks from all three of them. “Well,” Gary said slowly. “When a vicar and a landlady love each other very much, sometimes they like to have a special kind of cuddle—” He broke off, cackling when I jabbed him in the ribs.

  “I meant, where do you draw the line? Is kissing all right? Is it all right as long as you don’t slip ’em some tongue? Are there parts of the body that are no-go areas, or is it all good as long as there’s no actual penetrative—hang on a mo, how does that even apply for lesbians? Seeing as neither of them’s got a dick.” I was getting a headache. “Do strap-ons count?”

  “Tell you what, why don’t you go and ask Harry about it?” Phil asked with a smirk.

  “I’ll tell you why. Because Harry’d have my bloody dick as a trophy.”

  “So what does that tell you? That it’s your own potential lack of a sex life—and mine, come to that—you should be worrying about, not Harry’s. What those two get up to in private is just between the two of them.”

  “And God,” I added piously. Then I sent a quick mental apology skywards in case anyone up there might think I was taking the piss.

  “Yeah,” Phil went on. “And last I checked, His name wasn’t Tom Paretski.”

  I fluttered my eyelashes at him. “Shame, that. Does that mean you won’t be getting on your knees to worship me later?”

  “Oh, please,” Gary broke into me and Phil’s little tête-à-tête, and I noticed Darren was making gagging motions. “Anyone would think you two were the newlyweds, not my sweetie-pie and me.”

  Phil and me shared a glance, then he started talking to Darren about his plans for the honeymoon quick before we could give the game away.

  “You know, your Phil’s starting to grow on me,” Gary said after a while, in full earshot of the man himself.

  “Like a fungal infection?” I suggested before Gary could do it himself.

  Phil sent me a gla
re that promised retribution later. I was looking forward to it.

  “Mm, no, actually,” Gary continued thoughtfully. “More like bindweed. You know if you don’t uproot it ruthlessly, it’ll take over the whole garden, but it does look rather pretty when it blooms.”

  “Nah, he’s all right, Phil is,” Darren butted in. “Just ’cos he ain’t all touchy-feely don’t mean he don’t care.” He fixed me with a stern look. “Like an apple, he is. Hard on the outside, looks tough, but bruises easy. You want to watch you don’t bruise him.”

  “That’s it,” Phil said. “Anyone coming up with any more vegetable metaphors for me has to keep ’em to themselves or put a quid in the tip jar.”

  “Similes,” Darren corrected. “They ain’t metaphors, they’re similes.” He caught us all staring. “What? So Spanish ain’t the only evening course I took.”

  “Isn’t he just too perfect?” Gary sighed.

  The meal was great—lots of plain English food washed down with fancy French plonk—and by the time I started getting nervous about my best man’s speech, which was when I stood up to make it, I realised everyone was too pleasantly sloshed to give a monkey’s what I said as long as I kept it short and didn’t eat into valuable drinking time.

  They laughed at the funny bits, anyhow, so that was a win.

  Phil’s speech was even shorter and went straight for the heart. It didn’t have any laughs, but it did have me tearing up again. Must have been all that wine. Or something. When he invited everyone to raise their glasses and themselves to the happy couple, the cheers almost drowned out the hideous scrape of fifty chairs being pushed back as one.

  Sitting back down, I groped for Phil’s hand. We’d been seated next to each other—well, your usual wedding seating plan doesn’t really cater for having two grooms and two best men, although I bet someone somewhere was busy writing out a new book of etiquette to cover the situation. “Great speech,” I whispered.

  Phil looked uncomfortable. “You don’t think it was too much?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Perfect.”

  Gary and Darren left for their honeymoon soon after the end of the meal, to a chorus of catcalls and cheers and not a few thrown condoms. My face was starting to ache from smiling all day, so God knows how Gary was managing. I’d never seen him look so happy, bless him.

  Phil and me stayed at the White Hart for another round of drinks, finally catching up a bit with Greg and Cherry. Sis was looking pretty in a summer frock (not see-through) and one of those weird feathery things women wear instead of hats. Greg had somehow managed to find a dog-collar shirt in pride pink, which I thought was pretty decent of him.

  After a bit, Phil stood up. “Right. Got something I need to do.”

  “It’s through the door and on the left,” I told him helpfully.

  He made an exasperated noise. “Not that.” Then he hesitated and looked at his watch. “See you back at yours in about an hour and a half?”

  “Yeah, all right.” We hadn’t made any plans for the rest of the day, and it was still fairly early. And while I’d have been quite happy to support our local enterprise until closing time, a bit of couple time had definite attractions.

  “You’ll be there?”

  “Course.”

  Phil nodded, and I watched him walk away.

  Well, failing to do so would have been a criminal waste.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I made sure I got back to mine good and early, seeing as it seemed to be important to Phil for some reason. I thought about using the time to give the place a quick tidy. Then I thought, nah, no point, it was only Phil coming round, and he’d helped make the mess in the first place.

  I wondered what this was all about. I had a nasty feeling it might be to do with my spidey-senses—Phil’s eyes had lit up like Blackpool illuminations when I’d told him about the effect the fire had had. He’d gone on about stuff like focus and need that made me think he’d actually clicked some of the links at the end of the Wikipedia article on dowsing this time.

  The Internet’s got a lot to answer for, in my view.

  I had a quick cup of coffee—the walk back had cleared my head a bit, but I was still feeling the effects of midday drinking—then sat down with the cats. And promptly had to stand up again when the doorbell rang. If that was Phil, I was going to have words with him about using his key.

  Whatever I’d been about to say died on my lips when I opened the door.

  Standing on the doorstep with Phil was an old bloke about my height, maybe an inch or so shorter, with thick grey hair and clear green eyes with deep crow’s-feet etched into the corners. He must have been in his sixties or so, but he was still pretty straight-backed, although he had a walking stick in his hand and Phil was hovering a bit, as if the bloke might have been a bit unsteady on his feet on his way to the front door.

  “Phil?” I asked, gob-smacked, meaning is this who it looks like, and do you realise I’ll sodding kill you if it’s just some random bloke off the street?

  He gave me a crooked half-smile. “Happy belated birthday. Here’s the other half of your present.”

  I just stared at the old bloke.

  “You’re Tom Paretski?” he asked, in a voice with a touch of the West Country about it—and a touch of the Old Country too, even after all these years.

  “Yeah,” I managed, my throat dry.

  Jesus Christ.

  Leaning on the stick with his left hand, the bloke held out his right. It felt dry and crepey but warm when I took it. He smiled, and the crow’s-feet deepened. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

  “Tom?” Phil said, staring intently at me, his gorgeous face unreadable as ever and not looking remotely like a flower or a fruit or anything else from the vegetable kingdom. “This is Mike Novak. Your dad.”

  About the Author

  JL Merrow is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She read Natural Sciences at Cambridge, where she learned many things, chief amongst which was that she never wanted to see the inside of a lab ever again. Her one regret is that she never mastered the ability of punting one-handed whilst holding a glass of champagne.

  She writes across genres, with a preference for contemporary gay romance and the paranormal, and is frequently accused of humour. Her novella Muscling Through was a 2013 EPIC Award finalist, and her novel Slam! won the 2013 Rainbow Award for Best LGBT Romantic Comedy.

  JL Merrow is a member of the UK GLBTQ Fiction Meet organising team.

  Find JL Merrow online at: www.jlmerrow.com, on Twitter as @jlmerrow, and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jl.merrow

  Look for these titles by JL Merrow

  Now Available:

  Pricks and Pragmatism

  Camwolf

  Muscling Through

  Wight Mischief

  Midnight in Berlin

  Hard Tail

  Slam!

  Fall Hard

  Raising the Rent

  The Plumber’s Mate

  Pressure Head

  Relief Valve

  The Shamwell Tales

  Caught!

  Coming Soon:

  The Shamwell Tales

  Played!

  If you dig up the past, be prepared to get dirty…

  Relief Valve

  © ٢٠١٤ JL Merrow

  Plumber’s Mate, Book 2

  It hasn’t been all smooth sailing since plumber Tom Paretski and P.I. Phil Morrison became connected at the heart, if not always at Tom’s dodgy hip. Neither of their families has been shy about voicing their disapproval, which hasn’t helped Tom’s uneasy relationship with his prickly older sister, Cherry.

  But when Cherry is poisoned at her own engagement party, the horror of her near death has Tom’s head spinning with possible culprits. Is it her fiancé Gregory, a cathedra
l canon with an unfortunate manner and an alarming taste for taxidermy? Someone from her old writers’ circle, which she left after a row? Or could the attack be connected to her work as a barrister?

  Phil is just as desperate to solve the case before someone ends up dead—and he fears it could be Tom. At least one of their suspects has a dark secret to hide, which makes Tom’s sixth sense for finding things like a target painted on his back...

  Warning: Contains a strong, silent, macho PI; a cheeky, chirpy, cat-owning plumber; and a gag gift from beyond the grave that’ll put the cat firmly among the pigeons.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Relief Valve:

  It had all started a week or two previous, when the phone rang. (And if you haven’t got déjà vu at this point, where have you been?) It was the landline, not my mobile, which meant it wasn’t work, or a mate, or… Come to think of it, why did I still have a landline?

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” Phil asked, secure in the knowledge that with the ten-ton furry cushion that was Arthur snugly asleep on his lap, he was excused errands for the foreseeable future. “Put the kettle on while you’re up.”

  Serve him right if he got pins and needles in his dick. “It’ll only be some bloody telemarketer from a call centre in India. It’ll stop ringing in a minute when one of the other six lines they’re calling picks up.”

  We listened as the ringing carried on. Even Merlin paused in batting at something under the armchair and twitched a furry ear.

  “Might be important.”

  “Fine, fine, I’m going.” I heaved myself up from his side—I’d been comfortable there—and plodded over to the house phone, overdoing it a bit to make a point. “Yeah?”

  “Tom? It’s me. Cherry.” Not a telemarketer, then. My sister. Right: family. That’s why I still had a landline. I hoped they appreciated how they were costing me fourteen quid a month plus call charges. She sounded worried—at least, as far as I could tell from the unfamiliar voice on the phone.